


You Can Fog Up My Windows Anytime

by lemoninagin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Flirting, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Bagel Shop Au, Bagels, I can't believe that's actually a tag, M/M, Window Washer Keith, bagel boy lance, seriously tho can we talk about how bagels is a legit tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8516440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoninagin/pseuds/lemoninagin
Summary: [Pidge!!][I think I’m in love with the guy who washes the windows. Plz help me][Lance, it’s 4 in the fucking morning]





	

**Author's Note:**

> My goal after this election is to just write as much gay stuff as i possibly can. suck my fucking gay ass balls america

 

[Pidge!!]

 

Lance sends the hurried text, fingers already typing another one right as his phone instantly blips, and a new message comes in.

 

[ _Fuck off_ ]

 

Alright, he’s still going to send the next one anyway.

 

[I think I’m in love with the guy who washes the windows. Plz help me]

 

To emphasize his current predicament, he sends a flurry of emoticons afterwards, a jumble of panicked frowny faces, a broken heart, and then minature bits of food. Those aren’t really related at all, but he finds them cute so he doesn’t see a reason not to add them too.

 

As he waits for a response, he scrolls through the emoticons, a little sad there isn’t a bagel one, or maybe a tiny window washing tool to further exemplify his situation.

 

[ _Lance, it’s 4 in the fucking morning_ ]

 

Lance can practically hear the exasperation in her voice as he reads it, can imagine the roll in her eyes. He’d really rather message Hunk since he knows where this is probably going, but it’d be pointless anyway. The guy always goes to bed early and sleeps like a rock, contrary to all that is normal in adult college life. Lance dares to look over his phone, flushing as he watches his new ‘love interest’ in question. The boy is probably about his age, with long, dark hair pulled in a low ponytail, wearing an overlarge red hoodie with the words “Paladin Window Cleaning” printed in large white letters on the back.

 

He’s currently in the main area of the restaurant, on a short step stool reaching up above his head to spray the window and wipe grime off it. There isn’t anything particularly sensual about it, the guy is just doing his job. He’s completely oblivious to any staring Lance is doing - which he’s doing quite a lot of, barely remembering to continue panning out bagels even though he’s on a strict time limit before they open.

 

But Lance is smitten and can hardly focus, completely drawn to every fluid movement, to every tiny thing the boy does. Lance notes his mannerisms like he’s writing some research paper, ticking off the things and feeling his heart beat faster at every observation.

 

The guy sticks his tongue out just the tiniest bit when he appears to be concentrating. He furrows his brows a lot, as if in deep thought, and Lance wonders what he’s thinking about. He’s completely quiet, but occasionally taps his foot to the beat of whatever tune he’s listening to in his headphones, sometimes even sways his hip subtly, and Lance has to clap a hand to his heart to keep from dying from arrhythmia. It’s sort of lame, but also kind of cute that he wears these tacky, fingerless leather gloves. He has a dusting of freckles smattered over prominent cheekbones, pretty, full eyelashes outlining striking almond eyes, an incredibly handsome face, and that _hair_. Lance would love to touch it, to fluff it between his fingers, to maybe pull it during some other, more innapropriate time.

 

God, this is so embarrassing. He shouldn’t be thinking about this at work.

 

Lance slacks a few more trays to distract himself from the growing tension in the pit of his stomach, stuffs them haphazardly in the proofer before letting his attention wander again.

 

Honestly, the kid should be a model. Lance can’t really tell what his body looks like underneath the casual, loose clothing, but he’s sure it’s smoking. What in the world is he doing cleaning fucking windows?

 

Lance swears he's new, too - either that, or the days he’s been coming have just so happened to be days Lance hasn’t worked before.

 

For sure, he isn’t _usually_ here at the shop on Wednesdays, but his manager wasn’t able to make it in today. So, at 2 am as usual, he’d dragged himself out of bed, thrown whatever he could find on lazily, and practically rolled out the door, sluggishly barely making it to his car. Baking at a bagel shop, well - it wasn’t the most glamorous job, yeah, but he needed the money and it was all he could manage to find in order to still attend his classes in the afternoons, so he didn’t really have a problem with it in the end.

 

This new guy, however, might be a problem. Not really objectively a bad one, but hell if Lance was going to get anything done on time with him being so goddamn adorable right in front of his eyes.

 

[ _yo. what in the world do you even want me to do, weirdo?_ ]

 

He’s suddenly torn from his thoughts by the ding of his phone. The boy looks over to Lance for the first time since he came in, apparently drawn by the sound, and Lance ducks back to his table, out of view from the main room. Breathing deeply in and out, he turns down the volume of his phone, considering it must be loud if the guy can hear it over his music.

 

[Give me advice quick dammit. He’s so hot, I want to talk to him but I don’t know what to say]

 

[ _Jesus, I’m working on a paper right now, idk what you expect me to say. It’s too early for this_ ]

 

[Pidge, please. I;m begging you. if u help me even a little i promise i'll buy u coffee for a week]

 

[ _...ok. Look, I don’t think it’s that serious. Just try not to overthink it, I’m sure you can think of some idle convo. And for fuck's sake, don’t use your stupid pick up lines_ ]

 

Lance frowns, hand gripping tightly around his phone. How dare she say that, his pick up lines are top notch!  When he responds, his fingers press so hard on the keys that there’s an audible clacking noise against the screen.

 

[Well I don’t see why not, those things are awesome! Screw u, I’m going to use them anyway]

 

[ _Whatever Lance. You wanna make a fool of yourself, go for it. Just don’t come crying to me when you don’t get laid ever again. Also, I’m turning off my phone now, I need to concentrate on this thing, it’s due in a few hours_ ]

 

Not getting laid ever again? Pfft. Well now she’s just being dramatic. He gets plenty of action!

 

...Usually. When he’s not in a dry spell, things are great!

 

Lance reminds himself to stay on task, ignores that he has been in a dry spell for so long he can’t recall when he didn’t have one.

 

[Fine!] Frowny face, angry devil face, middle finger, tomato, french fry. [I don’t need your stupid advice, _Pidgit_!]

 

Before Pidge can respond, he tags on another thing as an afterthought.

 

[And in case you didn’t know, that’s a combination of “Pidge” and “idgit”, because that is what you are]

 

[ _aight_ _dig ur own grave bro_ , _or suck a dick dude and chill or something. later_ ]

 

Lance can’t help it, he throws the phone at the table angrily. It’s already in the air when he decides to regret it, but it’s too late to take it back as gravity claims it, and claims it hard. The ringing that resounds from the old, clunky model on the very metal table is jarringly loud.

 

There’s no way that guy didn’t hear it. For a few seconds, there’s an incredibly poignant silence, with Lance bent over the table with a hand on the phone as if that will somehow take what he just did back.

 

“Uh, everything okay back there?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, just fine!” Lance pops his head back out, waggles his fingers towards the guy and grins. “Just, uh, dropped my phone. Slippery baking soda fingers, you know how it is!”

 

The boy tilts his head, gestures to his wiper. “Not really.”

 

“Of course, yeah. Nevermind, you probably wouldn’t.”

 

Against his better judgment, Lance traipses to the front desk, bending over it and propping his chin up with his palm. Work can fucking wait.

 

“So,” he drawls, deciding to plunge in with his best stuff first, “do you come here often?”

 

“I, uh.” The boy rolls up the sleeves of his jacket, and Lance follows the movement, admiring the small stripes of pale skin now exposed. He turns his head around without stopping his cleaning, cocks an eyebrow, looking about ten times as cute in his confusion. “You mean to _wash windows_?”

 

“Yeah,” Lance manages to say, licking his way too dry lips, too far down the rabbit hole to put the brakes on wherever the fuck he was planning to go with this. He leans against the wall with one arm, completely ignoring his work in favor of trying to put on an air of bad boy ambivalence. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

 

“Well, uh, I’m here like once a week,” the boy says slowly, with his head now turned back to the glass. Lance glances up, watching his reflection showing his deeply furrowed eyebrows as he wipes off the next panel of glass. “...Because that’s how often I work.”

 

“Right, right,” Lance purrs, smoothing back his hair, and subsequently the massive amount of sweat collecting there with it. “So not too often then?”

 

“No. Because this is my job.” The boy shrugs, sliding over to a panel a little farther away. “This is...y’know. It’s like, a thing that...I have to do. Not really a place I just drop by for fun,” he states dryly, hunching over more than he had before.

 

There’s a lapse of awkward silence again. Apparently, this guy isn’t a big talker.

 

Lance decides it’s probably time to put at least _something_ in the oven, lest they open in an hour and half with nothing but empty baskets and his boss out for blood for not having any product to sell.

The clock reads 4:30 after Lance slams the door shut, starts the timer. He still has some time to kill if need be. He peeks back out into the room, watching the guy sway to some unknown beat as he moves the ladder to the next panel and then climbs back up it. Suddenly, he whips his around head, as if he’s well aware of being watched. Pulling one earbud out, he flicks hair from his face, yawns.

 

“You need something, man?”

 

Yes, he needs to chill, needs to get back to what he was doing and just admit that even he doesn’t have the game for this league of sexiness.

 

“I was...just wondering what your name was. You know, you never told me.”

 

“You didn’t ask,” the guy retorts quickly, hopping down from the ladder. With one hand he folds it up, leans it on the wall neatly out of the way.

 

Lance blinks. He wasn’t expecting that response by a longshot. A ripple of annoyance runs through him, though not as strong as the feelings of attraction that are amplified about tenfold because of the cocky sort of attitude the guy has. 

 

Still, his next words come out a little more bitter than he intends. “Well, I’m asking now, _buddy_.”

 

“Don’t call me buddy,” comes the gruff response, and Lance’s cheeks fill with heat. Grabbing his bucket and wiper, the boy strides across the floor towards the back area where Lance was technically supposed to be working. “I’m Keith.”

 

“Keith,” Lance repeats, testing out the way it feels on his tongue and trailing after him, figuring he can use the excuse of going back to get a knife or something if he needs to. “That’s a nice name. Very, uh...exotic!”

 

Exotic? What is even saying anymore? To add salt to the wound, Keith doesn’t respond, just heads towards the sink to dump out his bucket. Lance lingers around the corner, eyes flicking back and forth nervously, wondering what he can say to charm Keith, calculating how gay he can make this without scaring him off.

 

“I mean, it sounds unique, you know.” Lance rocks back and forth on his heels. “I don’t...don’t meet many Keith’s. What’s the, uh, origin of that?”

 

Pidge is so unbelievably wrong. His pick-up lines are definitely great.

 

Definitely. No margin of error here at all.

 

“Umm. English? American?” Keith squints, picking up a rag to get at the layer of dirt caught in the wiper. He turns to Lance again, smiling slightly, and Lance feels like a deer caught in the headlights of the most beautiful thing in the world. He laughs a little, Lance’s knees buckle. “Dude, I don’t fucking know, I didn’t pick it out. It’s just a normal name, I guess.”

 

“Well, it’s nice.”

 

Keith side eyes him, offers a curt, “Thanks.”

 

Lance lets that hang, stands there awkwardly. He isn’t sure what else to do. In theory, probably his job.

 

Keith continues cleaning out the rudders methodically, refills the bucket with fresh, soapy water, and Lance continues staring like an idiot. After a few minutes Keith sighs, sets it all down in the sink. He turns to Lance with narrowed eyes, one hand propped on his hip.

 

“Is there something in particular you want?”

 

‘ _You,_ ’ Lance thinks.

 

“This rag,” he squeaks instead, grabbing some ratty cloth from the sink, and scampers back to his workstation.

 

But his mouth - damn it all to hell - his mouth just can’t let this go.

 

“Actually, no, not just the rag,” Lance calls back not more than a minute later, hands working a mile a minute dipping the now overproofed dough in cornmeal, flipping them to cover their tops in seeds.

 

“See, I’ve lost my uh, lost my phone number, and I was…” Lance snaps his eyes shut, glad Keith can’t see how red his face must be now. “...I was wondering if I could have yours instead.”

 

There’s a clatter of metal on metal, like something being dropped in the sink, and Keith swears.

 

“How the fuck do you lose your _own phone number_?” is all Keith responds with, tone incredulous, after a few choice words.

 

“Um.” Lance covers up his own curses at his increasing stupidity by slamming the next rack of bagels in the proofer, thankful of the blaring alarm of the timer indicating the vent on the oven needs to be open. He switches it, recollects himself. Top notch pick up lines. He can do this.  “To...make room for yours?”

 

“God,” Keith groans, coming back into view around the corner. He’s got the cleaning rag thrown over his shoulder, jacket now unzipped, revealing a tight, black shirt that confirms all of Lance’s greatest fantasies. It doesn’t help that it’s damp too, a blotch of soapy water covering the upper half of his torso. If he squints hard enough, Lance can just barely make out the outline of a nipple.

 

“If I give you my number, will you at least shut the hell up already? I’m trying to work here.”

 

Overjoyed that that somehow worked, Lance drops everything he’s doing, whips out his phone. He doesn’t question it, he knows better than to take such a rare opportunity for granted.

 

Winking, he aims a finger gun to Keith. “You bet, dollface!”

 

Keith rolls his eyes, but takes the phone. As he’s punching in numbers, he mumbles, “Call me dollface again, though, and I’m going to knock you through this window so hard, you’ll forget much more than your own number.”

 

“Oh.” Lance struggles to stay coherent as he imagines those muscles rippling, those arms flexing even as they violently retaliated against him. “Could you really do something like that?”

 

Keith hands him his phone back. He tilts his head, and some hair unfurls over one eye. The corners of his mouth tug up in amusement. “Why, wanna find out?”

 

He sort of does, but he probably wouldn’t be able to afford the hospital bills or the damage costs, so Lance decides to just shake his head and be done with that particular line of questioning. It won’t lead to anywhere good before a first date is in the works.

 

“Good, well. I’m done here, so.”

 

Keith shuffles past him, making as if to leave, but then stops, pivots back around. Lance leans back towards the table as Keith gets a lot closer in his bubble than he expected.

 

“By the way, you’re going to have to seriously work on those lines if you want to get any farther than maybe making out,” Keith says bluntly, puffing breath so warm and hot over Lance’s face that he swears it melts him a little inside, especially when Keith raises a soft finger to his cheek. “A cute face only goes so far, you know? And dude, trust me, your mouth sort of ruins it.”

 

This is it, he’s going to die right here surrounded by the acrid scent of raw dough and a hot boy getting up in his space. What a way to go.

 

All Lance can do is nod vigorously in agreement, spine pressed up now painfully against the table. Oh, he can do that, definitely. The internet exists to help poor people like him, of course. He doesn’t even need Pidge or Hunk to know about this.

 

Keith must see the arousal pooled clearly in his eyes, because he laughs. His face lights up, his demeanor more open, his voice becomes higher pitched. “Cool, cause I’d love to get you fogging up the glass sometime.” Keith nods to the steam clinging all around them, having settled back over the freshly cleaned panels. “We could get things going steamy, put on a little show? Preheat the oven, so to speak?”

 

Lance makes a strangled noise, eyes widening. The spinning of his head is overwhelming, and he’s painfully aware of the tightening of his pants around his groin. For the love of all that is queer, _what_?

 

Keith moves back, twirls the wiper between his fingers like a baton, lopsided grin locked in place. “We can always clean up any fingerprints after, right? Wipe away the evidence, and your boss will be none the wiser.”

 

“I-I, w-wha, g-god,” Lance stutters, breath caught like a hook in his throat, because hell if he isn't thinking about it. “Fuck.”

 

Keith bats his eyes, nods. “Yeah, exactly.”

 

The noise that escapes Lance’s lips then is anything but manly.

 

Keith’s expression falls back into his moody, flat affect, dropping his flirtatious attitude completely. He crosses his arms, speaks matter-of-factly. “See? Creative wordplay like that would be a huge improvement and a lot more attractive.” He glances towards the ceiling as if questioning the validity of his own words, shrugs apathetically. “I mean, I guess if you like cheesy shit like that.”

 

Lance inhales deeply. “Holy shit, dude.”

 

Keith ignores the mini freak out he’s having. Sniffing at the air, his nose scrunches. “Hey, I think your shit is burning.”

 

Lance scrambles to get to the oven, tripping over his feet in the process. He’s opening the door, desperately trying to fan out smoke when Keith waves to him, throws up a peace sign while he pulls his hood over his head and waltzes towards the exit.

 

“See you around, bagel boy.”

 

And then he’s gone, and Lance is left to deal with the scorched remains of a wasteland of useless bagels, considering himself lucky he didn’t at least physically burn himself to match the way Keith completely eviscerated him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is legit based on the fact that I work at a bagel shop, and the guy who comes to clean the windows literally is from a service called ‘paladin window cleaning’. Like that is a real thing that exists, so naturally, it got me thinking, “well, there’s no other way around it. i gotta write this klance bagel shop au, clearly”.
> 
>  


End file.
